


Shadows

by NightingaleSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1745285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles with his memories and the shadows that accompany them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows

Heat. It was engulfing him. Suffocating. It burnt in his lungs, on his skin, through his clothes. Sand. Searing his skin where it touched the palms of his hands, soaking through his combat uniform, baking him from the outside. The sun, blistering in its intensity, beat onto his exposed face, igniting pain in his heaving chest, his weakened arms, his unresponsive legs. Eyes tight shut, his focus was fully on the fire raging in his body. His left shoulder shattered where the bullet exploded  through flesh and bone. The hot, wet gush of bright blood seeping into the pale sand. He thought that may be his last thought; a part of him forever buried in the Afghan desert. It seemed strangely fitting in the end. The blood of a doctor, the sign of life in a landscape of death.                                                                                     

He opened his eyes. If he was going to die here, he would see the end, take in as much of the world as he was still able.  The sun almost whited out the blue of the sky. He squinted into the light, finally making out the wheeling of the vultures gathering overhead. 'You can wait a while, you bastards,' he muttered through dried, cracked lips. He looked down again, seeing their dark shadows circling ever closer on the sand off to his right. As his chest heaved and his vision began to fade, he dug his fingers into the scorching sand, feeling the roughness of the grains that had once been rocks, mountains, the stuff of stars. Another shadow before the world went dark. A familiar shape leaning over him, "John. Come back, John."

 

Heat. Still stifling, but without the aridity of the desert. Damp, humid heat. A press of weight, cocooning and smothering. His chest still heaving, he gasped, choked, sobbed.  Felt warm tears run unbidden from his eyes. They tickled their way down his cheeks, tipped miserably over the ridge of his chin and tracked salty streams down his neck, over his pounding pulse. A gentle touch, soft fingers brushing them away. Not his fingers. A whisper in his ear, "ssh, it's just a dream." A shift of weight, strong arms wrapping him, squeezing, reassuring. Sherlock.

Sherlock. His arms responded automatically, gripping mercilessly at the warm body above him, feeling the movement of ribs, imagining the oxygen feeding the blood, powering organs, muscles. Life itself.  Underneath him, the sheets rucked and wrinkled over the heat of the mattress. Sherlock's arms dug into his back, the bony protrusions not painful but comforting in their intensity, their closeness, the fact that they were there at all.  His body shuddered as another sob wracked him. Wet heat suddenly appeared on his cheeks, lapped at the salt on his neck, soft full lips moving gently against his touch-starved skin. "John," his name reverberated through his body, loosening tension, relaxing muscles he didn't know were taut and corded, igniting desire; internal heat rising to match external. "John." He shifted as he felt the long arms struggle to free themselves from under his sticky back, moved into the new touch at his face, his chest; arched at the squeeze of a nipple, a whispery ghost across the solid scar of once flayed flesh, a push of those perfect lips right at the base of his throat.

Heat. Comforting, wet heat on his face, his lips, a mouth moving against his. The soft slide of a tongue opening, asking, entering with a slight tang of salted tears.  "Sherlock," he breathed, "oh Christ.  At last. Sherlock." The heat at his groin throbbed, wanted, needed.  Without asking, long fingers moved slowly down his body, teasing over his abdomen, testing the texture of the fine hairs that thickened and grew courser as they trailed from his navel to the luxuriant nest where his engorged member bobbed eager and aching. He groaned as skilled fingers wrapped around him lovingly, drawing them together, skin against skin against skin.  Automatically his left hand moved to join, shorter, thicker digits interlocking with long, nimble ones, moving as one, cradling and caressing. A steady, slowly increasing tempo, hurried but not rushed, the outcome both craved for  and put off as long as possible. The slick and slide of Sherlock's hand and cock against his own filled his senses. He gripped the narrow back, pulling him down onto him, holding him fast, not wanting to think, feel, hear anything other than Sherlock.  Moans filled his ears, he couldn't tell whose they were. It hardly mattered. Their bodies writhed together, sweat easing their shifting limbs, torsos, the still salty taste of kisses.  He revelled in the touch, the spiralling pressure of desire, the hot puffs of breath on his face, in his mouth, the mingled breath giving life to them both.

Before long it was inevitable. The pumping rhythm relentless, pulses racing, bodies shuddering towards release. He took it all in one last time. The feel of the heaving chest above him, the jerking of the hand under his, the velvet heat of his friend's member pulsing alongside his own and the joy, the absolute joy of that genius mouth claiming his so very passionately.  He cried out as his orgasm burst through him, ripped through his muscles, convulsed him until he sat, wide-eyed, sobbing, sticky, damp. Alone.  "Sher...sh." he whispered, his voice breaking and unusable. The shadow of an impossible curly head caught the corner of his eye.

 

John shivered as he flung the duvet back, his body still shaking both from orgasm and desperate emotion. The contrast of sticky, damp heat and the biting chill only making his longing worse.  January. He had never hated it quite so much.  He made his way into the shower, waited trembling whilst the water heated and then got under the torrent that was hot enough to scald the skin off his back. Longingly, reverently, he cleaned his release from his skin. Watched the water swirl away out of sight down the plug. He stayed under the flow until his sobs receded, until his limbs stopped shaking.  Afterwards he dressed, slowly, deliberately. Control was all. Precision.

"John." The voice called up the stairs. "Are you ready dear?"

He took a long, deep breath. "Just a moment, Mrs Hudson. I'll be there in a minute." 

In the kitchen, on the clean, otherwise empty table, stood a bouquet of flowers in a cut glass vase.  He lifted them out, wrapped their dripping stems carefully and tipped the water from the vase into the sink, rinsing it before leaving it upside down on the gleaming draining board.  Crossing the lounge, he steeled himself against the detritus of indecision; half-packed boxes, the gaping empty space where a long, dark coat should hang. His hand lingered in the gap before picking his coat (the only coat) off the hook and putting it on, buttoning it deliberately and ignoring the shadow that raced down the stairs ahead of him and waited impatiently at the door.

 

 

The taxi journey was silent.  For once the small, bird-like woman had nothing to say, just sat pinched and drawn beside him and he could find no words of comfort so didn't even try.  They walked slowly, breath huffing and hanging in the air in front of them, the grass still slightly crisp as the remains of a ground frost crunched underfoot.  She held back and he approached alone. Placed the flowers neatly into the empty holder, moved the Christmas wreath aside to dispose of later.  He took off his gloves. Wanted to feel it. Needed to feel the cold touch of solid marble under his warmed skin. "Well," he started, voice cracking slightly, checking around to make sure no one was in hearing distance. "Happy Birthday." He swallowed and straightened his back. "Wherever you are, I hope you're causing hell you bastard. I.. I don't know about me. What I'm doing. I'm half packed you know. The flat. It. It's empty without you. Doesn't feel right. Don't know. Don't know if I can leave. Memories. They're... yeah, they're good. Mostly. But I think. I think I have to go. Have to move on." He tightened his shoulders to repress a shudder. Bit hard on the inside of his cheek. Refused to blink. "Sherlock." It was barely a whisper on the breeze, his knuckles tightening on the edge of the stone. "So much I should ..... we could......"

Cold. He took two, three, deep breaths before removing his hand. As he looked up, he saw the shadow of a coat disappearing into the trees. He didn't follow. He had had enough of shadows.


End file.
